


Roland is fierce and Olivier is wise

by Anonymous



Category: La Chanson de Roland | The Song of Roland
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Multi, Psychic Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 11:59:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17043329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Roland is brave and reckless; his wolf-brother, Durandal, never saw a fight he didn't want to win.  Olivier, the prudent, and his wolf-sister Hauteclere try to temper their enthusiasm.   This time for sure!





	Roland is fierce and Olivier is wise

**Author's Note:**

>   * Mention of possibility of offscreen rape, no named characters involved. 
>   * I have taken the liberty of personifying Roland's sword, Durandal, and Olivier's sword, Hauteclere, as soul-bonded wolves. 
>   * I am grateful to Asuka Kureru (Askerian) and to Arithanas for pointing out holes in the plot and in the wolves.
> 


Hauteclere sniffed. _Cock-blood-dunghill coming._

_Good news._

_Cock-blood-dunghill stupid, makes you stupid._

“You just don’t like Durandal,” Olivier said aloud.

_Blood-trampled-into-mud **more** stupid. Makes pack stupid. Makes mountains stupid._

_Good in a fight, though._

_Starts fights. Stupid fights._

Olivier strode toward _burned-tree-bear-scat_ , which translated roughly to “Eastward, about half a league.” Not that a translation was needed; he walked with his wolf, letting Hauteclere tug them along.

_Hungry. Stupid-fuzz-meat near cold-running-water._

Hauteclere was just venting her annoyance; Olivier didn’t bother to reply. Hauteclere hadn’t attacked any domestic animals since the time Olivier had lain in a cave, delirious from fever. Hauteclere had brought back chickens, and saved him the livers. Durandal, on the other hand, had cost Roland much in payment for stolen chickens, geese, and the occasional lamb.

Sure enough, there at the lightning-struck tree stood black-haired Roland, brown-brindled Durandal sneering at his side. “Hail, partner!”

Olivier rolled his eyes. “You were supposed to meet me three days ago. What have the two of you been getting up to?”

Roland grinned that irresistible grin. Olivier, inured, didn’t grin back. Much. Durandal lolled his tongue at Hauteclere.

 _If blood-trampled-into-mud play-bows, I bite._ Durandal and Hauteclere usually got along well enough, but Hauteclere was as annoyed as Olivier by the delay. _Blood-trampled-into-mud found squirrel? Dead dove? Cowpat?_

There was no point in asking Roland what he’d been up to. Rescuing a fair damsel, putting down a bandit…

Reading Olivier’s mind, and not through pack-sense, Roland replied, “Actually, I got in a fight. “

Hauteclere huffed derision. _Told you!_

“Did you win?”

“Stupid question.”

“Did you happen to find the reason we’re actually here?”

Roland’s face sobered. “No, but...” He jerked his chin in the direction of the Col du Beof. “Cowherd women and girls have been disappearing from the high valleys. Never men or boys.”

“Bodies?” 

Roland shook his head no. 

Durandal sent, _One fat-bell-meat, no human bitches._ Durandal would have found them; even for a wolf, he was keen-nosed.

“More than one man.”

“Not much doubt,” said Roland, grim-faced. “One man alone couldn’t carry off three women without help, not in these mountains.”

Olivier sent, _Blood-trampled-into-mud, more smells?_

 _Too much rain._ Durandal’s mind-voice brimmed with resentment. He didn’t like failure.

“Let’s go, then.” _Ready?_

Hauteclere replied _Hunt. Blood-trampled-into-mud can have my leavings._

* * *

Roland and Olivier sat by the fire, watching the wolves finish off the carcass of a pig that had mysteriously vanished from one of the lower untended meadows, and reviewed what little they knew. They had split up to talk again to the individual herders., but got very little more information. In summer, herders spread far apart, one or at most two to a meadow, half a day or more’s travel between the two. The herders knew that valley-to-valley whistles had gone unanswered. The old man who could be spared to investigate had found huts deserted, herds wandering alone, cows that had wandered too close to the edge of the meadow and fallen.

Hauteclere shot out, _Eaten?_

_Stupid._

_Our kind?_

Durandal’s mind-voice was full of rage and frustration. _Can’t tell. Bone-eaters got there first._

Aloud, Roland said, “They can’t have wandered off, not all of them. They’re bred up to herding. Maybe one in a thousand would abandon their post, not three in a single summer.”

“No. Not dead, either, at least not at the meadows. Cattle bones, but no humans.”

“Witchcraft?” suggested Roland, solemn-faced. 

Olivier rolled his eyes. “Even the grannies didn’t suggest that.”

“Who do we know that’d steal girls —not just attack, but steal.”

 _Soldiers._ sent Durandal, with Hauteclere a second behind. Olivier didn't often hear calm Hauteclere in agreement with rash Durandal.

Roland said aloud, “Well, then. Finished your food? Over the pass, and let’s see what we find. “ _Grizzled-pack-leader needs to know._

The moon was gibbous; not bright as day, but good enough to scout by. Olivier rubbed ashes into a grumbling Hauteclere’s white muzzle, while dark Durandal lolled his tongue in a wolf-laugh. Hauteclere pissed on the last of the fire; Roland stirred the ashes with a stick, then stood. 

_Up to the pass, then split. Horse-sweat-and-steel, frozen-juniper, stay within pack-sense, be cautious._

_Same to yourself!_ flashed back Olivier, Hauteclere’s amused agreement rippling underneath.

 _When was I ever not?_

Olivier shook his head, but fell in behind Roland, Hauteclere and Durandal ranging to their sides, sniffing the wind.

The way to the pass would have been invisible to wolfless strangers. Hauteclere’s and Durandal’s keen senses led them up the shepherds’ way: an old tuft of cow-hair, ground trodden too wide to be merely a goat-path, and —

 _Human shit_ sent Durandal.

_Fresh?_

_Rain. Can’t tell. Maybe two days._

With no orders needed, Hauteclere bounded to where Durandal sat, Olivier a minute or so behind. When he got to the bush, the wolves were scenting, mouths open, tails flagging their interest. Roland was squatting down, looking for something.

"Didn’t know you had such an interest in shit." said Olivier, from behind him.

"Shut up and look."

Olivier squatted beside him, and Roland held out his hand. 

In the dim light, Olivier could only see a scrap of cloth. "You’re the clear-eyed one. What is it?"

"Checked fine linen. Too fine for a soldier. A woman’s."

"Dressed for her sweetheart?

"Maybe." Roland stood and addressed the wolves. _Corpses?_

 _No. Not_ that _much rain. Would know._

_Up, then. Over the pass, stop, look._

They made the rest of the climb in silence, breath catching in their lungs. Roland and Olivier were strong men, but neither they nor their wolves were mountain-bred. They scrabbled their way through the pass, then down to a meadow half a league below the summit, where they could safely stand and look down unseen.

There was a camp below them, perhaps another league. Fires blazed brazenly; the soldiers obviously weren’t expecting to be seen. The wind brought up scraps of shouts; Deutsch, Olivier thought. Mercenaries, then. But whose?

_Lookouts?_

Durendal curled his lip. _Piled together like pups. No scouts._

Olivier needed more information. _Go down, count, come back. No fights. Sneak._

Roland burst in. "Idiots! We can ambush them! They have no discipline. Attack by night, pick them off one by one, save the ladies, return as heroes!"

 _You_ idiot, thought Olivier and Hauteclere as one.

Aloud, Olivier said, "We need to know how many and where they're going. After that, I'll send Hauteclere with a message to the forward falconer.. Hauteclere reports to Oliphant, Oliphant flies to Charlemagne. At Hauteclere's and Oliphant's best speeds, it won't be a week before we see reinforcements from Charlemagne. In the meantime, you, Durandal, and I can pick them off one by one. Keep them nervous, distracted. "

"We'll finish this ourselves! I'd be ashamed to beg help from my liege; all the wolves and men in the pack would laugh at me."

Durandal agreed. _Not ask grizzled-pack-leader. Go, kill, go home!_

"Roland, _no_. Think. We don't know if this is an isolated band of thugs, or the leading edge of some sort of army. We could destroy these, at some risk --"

"I care not for risk --"

Suppressing an eyeroll, Olivier continued "--but we'd forfeit any information they might carry. Time enough to fight after we've observed longer, and after Charlemagne has spoken."

Roland and Durandal spoke simultaneously.

 _Don't wait. Fight._  
"Never! My honor --"

Hauteclere growled. _Won’t risk unborn cubs for dung-cock-blood-mud-steel-horse stupidity_

Roland, Olivier, and Durandal jumped into the wolf-sense simultaneously. 

_What?_  
_You didn’t have a heat._  
_Frozen-juniper not smell pregnant._

 _If vinegar-soap-lapdogs get killed, never_ will _be_ , spat Hauteclere.

Roland and Olivier looked at the growling Hauteclere, dumbfounded.

After a moment, Durandal rolled on his back and exposed his belly.

 _No fight._ sent Hauteclere.

Roland’s shoulders shook silently with laughter; after a moment, so did Olivier’s.

_No fight._

None of them, afterward, were sure who said it first.

_Next heat?_


End file.
